The Man in the Middle of Bountygate

Continued (page 3 of 4)

In the beginning of April, he finally sent the audio of Gregg Williams to Yahoo! Sports. Not long after the post went up, it felt like every outlet in America picked up the story. The audio, and Pamphilon's name, circulated across the sports world.

Gleason released a statement explaining that he had opposed the release of the tape and that he felt betrayed by someone he trusted. (Through an attorney, Gleason declined to comment, except to say that he "hopes this will all be resolved soon.") With this single act, Pamphilon severed ties with a business partner, picked a fight with the most powerful league in sports, and violated the trust of people he cared deeply about. A Saints fan called into a radio show to compare Pamphilon to Jerry Sandusky "getting on the news and trying to justify what he did." Sports Illustrated's Peter King blasted Pamphilon in his widely read "Monday Morning QB" column.

"Pamphilon betrayed the wishes of a dying man and a former very close friend by releasing the tape; that much we know," King wrote. "This is one of those cases where what's legally right shouldn't matter. What's morally right should. What's morally right is that Pamphilon, who never would have heard what Williams said without being attached to Gleason, shouldn't have released the tape without Gleason's permission." Then King ended with this: "I cannot find it in my heart to quite call Pamphilon a rat, but I cannot call him a hero either."

···

When the elevator doors opened at NFL HQ, Pamphilon was several floors below the surface streets. He was expecting to go up. He wondered if he even had cell service down here. He stepped out into what felt like a maze. There were mannequins along the walls, each dressed in an NFL jersey. The men took him deeper and deeper into the bowels of the building. When they finally arrived in a meeting room, the men wanted to make sure he wasn't secretly recording anything.

Pamphilon took a seat in front of two very serious-looking men. He was suddenly very conscious of the fact that the NFL security is partly composed of former cops. In fact, one of the men, Joe Hummel, is a former FBI agent. He was the league's chief investigator, and Bountygate was his last big case, the product of years of work. In April he announced that he'd be leaving to become the vice president of an insurance company. His boss, Jeff Miller, was also in front of Sean. Miller, the league's vice president of strategic security, is the former commissioner of the Pennsylvania State Police.

There was an awkward, prolonged silence. Pamphilon made a quip to cut the tension—later he couldn't even remember what he said—but nobody laughed. It felt like Miller was staring into his eyes, forcing him into submission. Pamphilon pulled his computer from his backpack and put it on the table so they could see the screen. He's not technically savvy, but he expected he could get it to come up in a second. It wasn't working, though. He tried to explain that it wasn't like a link in an e-mail: His film partner put it online and there's a password, but it didn't seem to be working.

He tried another joke, but again Hummel and Miller were not amused. He could feel what little credibility he may have had in their eyes slipping fast.
At this point, he knew they were likely thinking: Who is this guy? Does he even have a video? Is this all some prank?

After several minutes of trying, he finally got the laptop working. The video popped up, and the two NFL employees seemed to snap to attention. They watched Scott Fujita and Steve Gleason in the back of a banquet hall, reacting to a defensive game plan. They heard "Kill the head and the body will die," over and over. They heard Gregg Williams talk about targeting injuries, targeting heads. And they heard him handing out money to players as they clapped and hollered.
Then they watched the footage from the other camera, and they saw an NFL coach point at his own head and tell his players—the men in his charge, the men whose livelihoods depend on pleasing him—that he was paying cash for the first head shot. They heard it again: "Kill the head and the body will die."

The investigators wanted to know who was in the room that night. Which players? Which coaches? Pamphilon told them he was focused on his cameras; he didn't see. Miller looked him in the eye, an "alpha-male, are-you-lying-to-us stare," Pamphilon would later call it.

The mood had changed. It was still far from friendly, but he'd made them pay attention. And whether they thought he was a hero or a rat, they shook his hand and thanked him for coming in.

···

In his latest project, a documentary called The United States of Football, Pamphilon has decided to go directly at the NFL. He loves the game, but like so many fans these days, he's conflicted. He's spent months crisscrossing the country, talking to coaches, players, doctors, and parents. He's advocating for safety but also asking this country to examine its relationship to football. He wants transparency, a willingness to put the health of human beings above the profit margin.

In the days I was with him on his trip, he and his photographer drove from New York to New Jersey to Maryland and into Washington, D.C., stopping to interview and film experts in each place. The afternoon after we visited the NFL headquarters, Pamphilon got a call. It was from Joe Hummel. Mostly, Pamphilon just listened. Hummel wanted to thank him again for coming in, for caring about the safety of the players and the integrity of the game. He sounded sincere. The call lasted less than two minutes, but for Pamphilon, it was validation. While Pamphilon may not be accepted by the Who Dat Nation, he's not an enemy of the NFL, either.